


Help Me Get in Touch With What I Feel

by thekingofcarrotflowers



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, Falling In Love, Hands, Holding Hands, It's like a linear stream of conciousness that highlights on big moments together, M/M, Reminiscing, Size Difference, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 04:36:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3964612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekingofcarrotflowers/pseuds/thekingofcarrotflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iron Bull reminisces about falling in love with Dorian and how dainty the mage's hands are. Dorian insists he has perfectly normal sized hands, thank you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Help Me Get in Touch With What I Feel

**Author's Note:**

> It turned into a bit of stream of consciousness reminiscing about their relationship via their hands? Based off of this prompt on the Kink Meme:
> 
> I've seen a few fics that like to wax poetic on Bull's big yaoi hands, but I'd like to see the reverse flipped. The Iron Bull is fascinated with Dorian's hands, who is like "Whut? They're not even that small. They're average size for a man my height", but to Bull they are the most precious thing ever. Partially inspired by my boyfriend (who is over six feet tall, while I am 5'1 on a good day) who likes to play with my hands (compares sizes, makes me wear his ridiculously oversized mittens and then laughs at how funny they look, holds my hand in public and then pretends that his hand is eating mine because it completely engulfs mine)

A warmth filled Bull’s chest as he lazily trailed his fingers up the length of Dorian’s arm to catch the man’s hand. He rubbed his fingertips over the knuckles, brushed his fingers up the long digits, thumbed at the callouses caused from wielding a staff. The rich skin, the neatly painted fingernails, the golden rings adoring the digits were always fascinating to the Bull. There were a few scars carved into Dorian’s hands, faded and light after Dorian ritualistically applied healing balms to any slight burn he received from casting, and Bull idly traced them. His large, silver hand could easily cover Dorian’s smaller one, making it appear practically dainty. Currently, the mage was pressed close against Bull’s side, sleep pulling at him after coming down from the high of sex. He made a small noise of complaint, though a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

  
“My hands really aren’t that small,” Dorian grumbled sleepily, flexing his hand in Bull’s grip. The qunari had found himself enraptured in Dorian’s hands dozens of times before, even before they had fallen into bed together, and Dorian could easily read his line of thought now.

  
Bull hummed happily, pulling the hand to his lips and kissing the back softly.

  
“They aren’t,” Dorian insisted, half-asleep at this point, and Bull let out a low chuckle. He gently stroked Dorian’s hand until he heard the mage’s breath grow deep and even in sleep. He continued to hold Dorian’s hand, which had grown slack in his grip, and let his mind wander.

  
With a clawed nail, he traced the length of Dorian’s life line, praying that the man next to him was able to live a long, full life. He knew the mage’s past had been filled with much personal turmoil and hurt up until this point, and hoped he made everything a little easier. The Bull was already resigned to dying young, never having expected to live this long, but there was no reason Dorian couldn’t grow old. A smile pulled at his lips at imagining Dorian’s hair streaked with gray, laugh lines carved deep into Dorian’s beautiful face, hands showing the weather and wear of magic, more scars flecking the skin there from more sprays of powerful flames. The thought of being able to be there, to make him happy, made the warmth swell and bloom in his chest, and that alone was enough enough to convince him to try harder to live a long life. The ability to bring Dorian happiness and comfort was beginning to be the purpose of most of his actions — getting the hole in the roof repaired, preparing hot cocoa during the coldest days in Skyhold, keeping the orchids on Dorian’s vanity fresh.

  
From the beginning, Dorian’s hands did something for Bull. At first, it was something akin to respect and admiration, seeing how flawlessly Dorian flicked his wrist and twirled his stave in his grip. His fingers would move artfully, rings catching light, as Dorian cast fire and lightning and ice, making every single movement into a small, beautiful part of a grand orchestration. With the right gesture, Dorian could reduce enemies to smoldering piles of ash or raise the dead. The amount of power that coursed through Dorian’s hands both scared and aroused the Bull then, knowing how dangerous magic could be. In the same breath, he could see through Dorian’s heavy masks to the person beneath, seeing how compassionate and passionate and sensitive he was beneath it all.

  
Then, after months of admiring Dorian from afar while learning how to press the mage’s buttons, there was a brush of fingers at the bar. Bull went out of his way to touch Dorian before that, strong claps on the shoulders and nudges with his elbow that had Dorian rolling his eyes. The mage never returned such gestures, yet he still stayed within Bull’s reach time and time again. Bull had asked if it truly bothered the mage one night in the quiet of camp late one night. The Bull had lifted Dorian back to his feet after a tumble during their hike through the Hinterlands, which had, of course, made Dorian squawk in outrage. Dorian had smiled gently at him then when he said he didn’t mind. This brush of fingers was Dorian’s doing.

  
As Bull slid an ale across the table for the man that plopped down across from him, Dorian had quickly reached out. Before Bull had the chance to pull his hands away, soft fingers brushed against his own as Dorian plucked the mug from his grasp. When Bull lifted his eyes to meet Dorian’s, he was smirking as he lifted the drink to his lips, making a warmth flare through Bull, want and fondness mingling together in that moment. Dorian looked away as he drank, but Bull let his gaze linger on the other man for a moment longer, wondering what Dorian’s intentions were. Remembering the moment now, with Dorian’s hand now clasped tightly in his own, made a low chuckle rumble through him.

  
These little moments unfolded, becoming more frequent and lingering. A touch to Bull’s shoulder when Dorian said his goodbyes after a night of drinking. An accusatory finger digging into Bull’s chest after the warrior made a particularly palsy and dangerous move of the battlefield. A hand extended after the Bull was sprawled out by a giant, Dorian felling the creature before it could smash a boulder against Bull’s prone form. They might have seemed like insignificant gestures to an outsider, but the Iron Bull was able to read the depth of these moments. He could see Dorian’s guard slowly being let down, bit by bit. These small moments paved the way for the Bull to be able to make Dorian throw his head back and laugh beside the campfire, for Dorian feeling comfortable enough with Bull not to take the man’s jabs to heart, for their strange relationship to move into the territory of uncertain friendship.

  
Bull smiled to himself at the memory of that friendship budding into something more, grateful he could now feel the warmth of Dorian pressed against his side night after night. It took some patience, some long months of wanting the mage and not able to shake the feeling Dorian stirred in both his chest and his gut. Again, it started small. After Bull made what had to have been the dozenth comment about Dorian’s staff, the mage had groaned as usual, but flashed the Bull a telling smirk. Dorian’s seat moved from across the table from Bull to next to him, but still a respectable distance from the larger man. When Bull’s bum knee was bothering him, Dorian walked in stride with the man, his bare arm occasionally brushing against the Bull’s.

  
Then, these things delved deeper. Golden fingers moving across silver skin in the dark of night, fumbling slightly at first, from nerves more than drink. It was the first time Bull felt how soft and smooth Dorian’s hands were, gentle and tender and skilled. It was something he had thought of often up until that point, daydreaming how Dorian’s hands would feel brushing against the sensitive base of his horns or digging into his back, yet he couldn’t have imagined how entirely satisfying it would be to have the man strung out among his sheets. He’d wanted to hold Dorian close that night, press kisses against those delicate hands as he intertwined their digits, but Dorian had disappeared as soon as he believed the Bull to be asleep. It wouldn’t be until much later that he had the chance to lace their fingers, enveloping Dorian’s hand with his own. He knew the man wasn’t small by human standards, knew he was a force to be reckoned with, yet there was something rewarding in it for both of them. Dorian felt safe, warm, cared for with the Bull able to so completely wrap around him, and Bull felt blessed with the trust Dorian gave him, able to protect something precious and his. Even now, looking over at Dorian’s still form, rubbing at the paler parts of his fingers that were usually hidden by rings, he felt that sense of pride swell up within him. Not long ago, Dorian was still fleeing from his bed, carefully untangling himself from sheets and Bull’s limbs in the dead of night to gather his things. Now, Dorian laid himself bare for him in so many ways, letting himself be vulnerable in these moments.

  
Bull’s memory shifted, to a time skilled fingers pressed against an open wound at his chest, frantic Tevene falling from Dorian’s lips. Dorian had been vulnerable then, eyes glossy with tears, hands trembling has he pushed the basic healing magics he knew into Bull’s wound. The sensation was oddly familiar, Dorian having pushed warmth and weak healing magics into his bad knee whenever it ached. Being the reason for Dorian looking so hurt made Bull’s heart ache, which was almost as bad as the burning, stinging of the exposed muscle of his chest.

  
“Don’t you die on me, Bull,” Dorian had urged then, when Bull’s eyelids had begun to feel impossibly heavy. The hazy forms of Cassandra and the Herald were hovering just behind Dorian, and Bull realized his wound must have been bad to make Cassandra’s face look anything except disapproving of his folly. The tang of blood had been heavy on his tongue.

  
“S’okay,” Bull slurred, struggling to speak, raising his hand to Dorian’s face a great effort. He wiped away the tears beginning to fall down Dorian’s cheeks before unconsciousness had pulled him in.

  
Those same fingers had been there, brushing across his cheeks, when Bull stirred days later. There were tears again, this time of relief, streaming down Dorian’s face. With less effort this time, Bull raised his hand to cup Dorian’s cheek. The mage nuzzled into it, breathing Bull’s name, raising his hand to press it against Bull’s much larger hand.

  
“Kaffas, you scared me,” Dorian mumbled, tracing his fingers along the grizzled scars on the Bull’s hands. The Bull studied those hands again then, the way they were trembling slightly, the warmth that flooded Bull upon contact. Bull murmured reassurance as he stroked Dorian’s cheek.

  
His mind strayed to another time he saw Dorian look so vulnerable, but in an entirely different way. They were crossing Skyhold’s courtyard together, Dorian having just returned from a long trip and needing a strong drink. Bull was itching to get his hands on Dorian, after long stretches of nights with his bed empty, but their initial reunions were always quick embraces and warm looks until they were in to privacy of one of their quarters. Eying Dorian carefully, Bull reached down and snatched up Dorian’s hand. A startled sound came from Dorian, his face turning quickly to look up at the larger man in shock. His golden eyes were wide, vulnerable and exposed as Bull wrapped his hand around Dorian’s, enclosing the hand completely in his own. Bull could tell Dorian was contemplating pulling away, so Bull gave him a warm, reassuring smile. Panicking, Dorian looked around at the few others outside. Josephine was walking arm-in-arm with the Lady Inquisitor, so they were paying them no mind. As Dorian’s eyes flickered from person to person, he realized no one else was paying them any extra attention than usual, and began to relax.

  
Bull hummed happily then, “Your hands are tiny.”

  
Dorian snorted, “My hands are completely average. I’m not the one with hands the size of serving dishes.”

  
Bull chuckled, giving the delicate hand closed within his a gentle squeeze, before they ducked into the tavern. Sure, the Chargers might have hooted in glee then, but there was no malice to any of it. Dorian’s blush and uneasy smile gave away to a look of pride as Bull continue to hold the mage’s hand in his, brushing fingers over his knuckles. Here and now, Dorian’s still form against him, he raised the hand to his lips again, kissing delicately.

  
“Bull,” Dorian huffed, but he didn’t pull his hand away, “Go to sleep.”

  
“Whatever you say, Kadan.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title stolen from "Hands" by the Raconeturs (maybe I'll make a sequel based on eye(s) because of the song??)  
> Say hello! http://thekingofcarrotflower.tumblr.com/


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